Inebriation
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: Christine drinks too much champagne. Erik must look after her. And occasionally, Erik likes to take a drink too.
1. 1

**A/N:** **Written for rienerose/riene's prompt "Champagne. Christine's had too much. Maybe it's New Year's Eve. (You can approach it from when she's younger with the other ballerinas, or older with Raoul or Erik. Up to you.)"**

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He sits her gently down on their bed, and she giggles, lying back against the pillow. Her normally pale cheeks are rosy from the champagne, eyes sparkling, and he gently puts her sitting again, carefully undoing the buttons of her dress.

"Cometo bed withmeErik, won't you?" She slurs her words together, her little hand resting at the back of his neck, thumb stroking the hair curling against his nape. "Please?" Her voice is pleading and he sighs, slipping her dress off and pulling her nightdress down over her head.

"Of course I will, my love." He presses a kiss to her cheek, and lays her down. "You will sleep here, and I will sleep right there beside you." He makes to lean back for to undress, but her fingers snag in his waistcoat buttons, insistent.

"No, Erik." She sloppily presses her lips to his. "I want-I want you to make...love to me." She bats her eyelashes at him, trailing her fingers tantalisingly down his neck.

He stills her hand with his own, kisses it and sets it down. "No, my darling. You drank too much champagne. You are intoxicated. What you want is sleep, and some strong tea in the morning." He disentangles her fingers and rolls off the bed, casting his jacket aside and swiftly unbuttoning his waistcoat.

She pouts at him. "But, Erik-"

"No." He throws off his shirt and kicks off his shoes, following them with his trousers. "That would be taking advantage of you, and it would be wrong." He pulls on his own nightshirt, and crawls into bed beside her, pulling the covers up tight around them. "Tomorrow, though, if you are still inclined..." He trails off, the first of her snores reaching his ears. Her lips are barely parted, tumbling curls falling over her face, and he pulls her into his arms, cradling her head close. "I did warn you, my love." He kisses her forehead and nuzzles into her hair, content to have her just like this. She is never drinking champagne again. And if she asks why, well, he _really must_ consider her voice.


	2. 2

**A/N:** **Upon my posting the first part of this to Tumblr, I received an anonymous ask requesting more drunk!Christine. So here it is.**

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She _might_ have had a little too much to drink. Though really, it's not as if it's _her_ fault. The managers just had to go and put on a party for closing night, and the very same night that Erik is too busy composing to much notice her absence. She is not the one to blame if she might have had a glass of champagne. Or two. Or maybe seven really it all started blurring a bit after the fourth one. Erik would not be impressed, but he won't know. She'll creep in, and crawl into bed and he'll finish his composition in a little while and join her and they'll cuddle and –

And the organ is silent. She checks twice, three times, to be sure that she is not dreaming the silence in the house on the lake, but her husband really _is_ missing from the organ bench where she left him. Another wife might be concerned, might be somewhat troubled over this unexpected absence, but he'll turn up somewhere. He always does.

For a moment, she wonders if she ought to take her opportunity while he is away and compose something of her own. It cannot be that difficult after all. He makes it look so easy with his hands, and his eyes shining in the lamplight, and the black dress suit jacket clinging to him just so and-

And with _those_ stirrings down _there_ she really should just go to bed, and maybe give herself some ease.

She throws her cloak off and wanders into her bedroom and oh-there he is, already tucked up asleep, his fingers curling slightly where they lie on the sheets. Fumbling at the buttons of her dress, she at last gets it off. Groping in the darkness, she pulls on the first thing she finds which, as it transpires, is not her nightdress but his dressing gown. She wraps herself in it as if she is wrapping herself in him, the scent of him on the collar sending a wave of calm through her, the silk lying smooth on her skin. She feels beautiful, heart and eyes brimming with love and oh, she's crying. When did that start? She has no need to cry.

She wipes the tears away and slips beneath the covers. He does not stir, does not notice her pressing herself to him and nuzzling his neck. He is so beautiful, really. If only he could see that.

She slips her hand up under his shirt, his skin warm beneath her touch, and sighs. Tomorrow, tomorrow she'll tell him. Tomorrow she'll make sure he knows…Tomorrow.


	3. 3

**A/N: An anonymous Tumblr user wondered what drunk!Erik might be like. This is the answer.**

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He is not one for drinking. He really is not. It is terribly bad for his voice, after all, and his voice is the one thing he has which is not a monstrosity. So he does not risk his voice. Not anymore, at least.

But it is the Daroga's birthday. And so, in honour of his one friend and dear ally, he conceded to visit the Rue de Rivoli for wine and chess. The burgundy was delightfully rich, hitting the back of his throat with a soft bitter bite delightful to the palate. It would have been wrong of him to refuse the Daroga's hospitality, and he is trying to do things right. Naturally, he _had_ to consume some of the wine. Besides, _one night_ will not prove detrimental to his singing.

He is not drunk. No no no. That would be an exaggeration. He is merely _moderately inebriated_. He was able to pilot his gondola across his lake, and having not lost that ability it would be ludicrous to consider him drunk. And the wall does take these notions of spinning. Well, surely even walls need exercise. It is wrong to confine them to one place for eternity.

He hangs his cloak on the hook, drapes his hat over a chair. Or, maybe it's the other way around. He cannot say where he puts his jacket or his cravat. The cravat was too tight crossing the lake. Maybe it fell in and drowned. Terrible thing for a cravat to drown. He has had it many years. Such a tragedy.

His eyes burn and he wipes the back of his hand across them. The drawing room is dark, but even moderately inebriated he knows his way across it. The white roses sitting on the mantelpiece glow in the darkness. A gift to his beautiful Christine. He presented them to her this evening when she came home exhausted after rehearsal. She would have joined him at the Daroga's, only he insisted that it was more important for her to rest her voice. Whatever about his voice, but her voice is the voice of the heavens and it would be blasphemous to tarnish it.

She was not so terribly tired at first, not when she kissed him on the cheek, and on the neck, and gently led him to bed. It was only afterwards, her sweet head pillowed on his chest, that she dozed. His heart aches to take her again, hold her close and kiss her. His throat tightens, fresh tears trickling down his cheeks as he opens the door into her – their, _their_ – bedroom. He sees her, just, in the darkness, lying on her back with her blonde curls framing her beautiful sleeping face, right arm thrown up and hand curled on the pillow beside her.

He crawls into bed, and lies beside his angelic young wife. She is so beautiful, so perfect. What has he done to deserve her in his life? Nothing, and yet she is here, so wonderful and sweet and gentle.


End file.
